


On the Fringes

by xxTwasADreamxx



Series: Hanging Off the Hinges [2]
Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Family Drama, M/M, Slurs, Some fluff but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxTwasADreamxx/pseuds/xxTwasADreamxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew can't stop thinking about Fletcher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Fringes

**Author's Note:**

> I've caught the Whiplash bug. I was watching the scene in the movie where Andrew has dinner with his family again and I couldn't stop thinking about Fletcher being there, too. Hope you guys enjoy :)
> 
> Credit again to WALK THE MOON's Anna Sun for the title. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_On the Fringes_

         Andrew can’t stop thinking about Fletcher. His hands, his mouth, those arms...God, he feels like he’s going crazy, his head swimming with ‘shut up you little fucktard’ and ‘get it right pansy ass weeper’. It’s like Fletcher’s a virus, come in and made a home in Andrew’s cells, infected him.

         They don’t talk about it, the next time they see each other. It’s business as usual, with Andrew screwing something up and Fletcher getting pissed and Andrew smirking a little because he knows Fletcher doesn’t have a choice but to put up with him because he’s the best goddamn thing Fletcher’s ever seen. And maybe Andrew messed up because he looked at Fletchers hands and could still feel them on his cock, or maybe he’s is just tired because he’s been kept up at night from the amount of dreams that leave him hard and aching for the old mans touch, slap, words spewing insults in his ears. It’s fucking messed up, is what it is, but Andrew is kind of past the point of caring.

         His dad asks him how it’s going, these days, how his relationship with Fletcher is. And since Andrew can’t really burst out with the truth, can’t say, “Gee, dad, it’s great. He still throws stuff at me but I kind of like it now, it really turns me on, actually”, he just says that it’s better.

         He guesses he shouldn’t have lied so convincingly, though, because next thing he knows his dad has invited Fletcher to dinner with his uncle and his cousins to show off how well Andrew’s doing. He hears it from his dad first, and when he brings it up to Fletcher at his house later he’s horrified to learn that Fletcher actually _said yes_.

         “What?” Andrew nearly crows, hands clenching the leather couch so hard they turn white. “Why?”

         “Why not?” Fletcher smiles, but not a nice smile, the type of smile that tells you you’re in deep, deep shit, and Andrew knows its payback for saying he hadn’t been drinking until he was sick over the weekend straight to Fletcher’s face that Monday only to be played a very drunken, very pathetic voicemail.

         At least Andrew didn’t beg Fletcher to fuck him again in the voicemail, not like in his dreams. Only cursed at him a little and then laughed.

         Saturday arrives with startling quickness, and next thing he knows Andrew is dressed in a  button up and jeans and answering the door barefoot to a wine bearing Fletcher.

         “Not for you,” he growls to Andrew as he steps in, a smile aimed at Andrew’s dad the whole time. “You take one sip, dipshit, and your cleaning my entire apartment for a week.”

         Andrew swallows hard and nods, and even when his cousins arrive and his uncle immediately starts bragging about their latest achievements, Andrew doesn’t even think about taking a drink. Okay, maybe a little, maybe a lot, maybe his hands itch for something to hold and numb, but he doesn’t, and that’s what’s important, right?

         “The guy was running, ten feet from making a touchdown and they had eight seconds left and then Travis rushes him and wins the whole game,” Andrew’s Uncle is rambling with this huge fucking smile on his face, and Andrew wants to punch the table.

         He can tell Fletcher is bored by the sports talk too but his dad, as much as Andrew loves him, is kind of a fucking pansy and just smiles and nods along with Frank’s story.

         “And how’s your hobby going, Andy?”

         Frank’s demeaning as shit comment pulls Andrew from his boredom, and he resists the urge to fling himself across the table at his Uncle.

         “At least I don’t have to trip some hundred pound kid to stop the other team from winning,” Andrew shoots back, and he’s gotten quite good at this, the comebacks and snappy remarks, because Fletcher has helped him in more than one regard.

         “Did your friends help you come up with that one?” Dustin smiles across the table, and Andrew smiles back, trying to make his teeth bare like Fletcher does.

         “Is that what they have you call the other countries in model UN? Since, you know, it’s not real?” Andrew asks, fingers clenching on the table as he leans forward.

         “Hey, I was reading an article the other day about how no one’s created a jazz hit that’s been on the top ten charts in years. Did you read that one, Andy?” Frank shoots from the head of the table.

         “Wow, it’s amazing you still have time to read when you’re so busy being a prick,” Andrew furrows his brow in mock confusion and awe, and Andrew’s father mutters a sharp burst of his name, and he’s had about enough so he pushes back from the table and goes to take a breath outside.

         He really should take up smoking, he thinks to himself as he kicks at the grass in the backyard. He can’t hear them from here, but he can imagine his father apologizing to Fletcher about his behavior. Not that Fletcher cares-he’s probably just as pissed about that jazz comment as Andrew was, but surprisingly, Fletcher’s really good at hiding his anger when it’s not directed at a student.

         A door slams behind him and speak of the devil, there’s Fletcher, striding to stand in front of him like some army commander.

         “They’re just-” Andrew starts to blabber out an explanation, but Fletcher pushes him into the back wall of the house and all the air whooshes from his lungs.

         “Little snot nosed brats who wouldn’t know a drum kit from their hand,” Fletcher finishes for him, and then he’s on his knees in front of Andrew, unbuckling his belt and slipping the button on his jeans through its hole.

         Andrew lets out a harsh breath when Fletchers hand pulls down his boxers and touches his cock, lets his head fall back. The fences are high here in Westchester where his uncle and aunt live, and they’re far enough away from the dining room that no one will be able to hear them if they’re quiet, but someone could come out that back door to see this, whatever _this_ is, at any moment.

         Then Fletchers mouth is around his cock, and Andrew stops worrying about it.

         Fletcher sucks hard, tongue sliding over the bottom of his cock and across the slit, and Andrew bites his lip hard to keep in a whimper. In all his fantasies, in all his dreams, Andrew never imagined this-Fletcher sucking Andrew off in the cooling air of New York Fall as his family eats inside.

         Andrew reaches down and clenches his fists on the shoulder of Fletchers black t-shirt, thrusts a little into his mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is hot, Fletchers tongue sliding over him and around him and his cheeks hollowing out and it’s like that feeling Andrew gets every time Fletchers eyes are on him and only him, except magnified. Andrew craves it, this feeling; Fletchers full attention, undivided and unyielding.

         “Fuck,” Andrew gasps out loud, knocking his wrist against Fletchers ear when he reaches up and wraps a hand around the base of Andrews cock, backs off and licks the head.

         Fletcher glances up at him and pumps a couple of times, aided by his spit and pre-come, raises an eyebrow at Andrews flushed face, mouth slightly parted, eyes bright from desire and pupils blown out to the edges of his eyes.

         “You can do better than that next time, though,” Fletcher says, and reaches up to slap him on the hip.

         Andrew comes.

         Fletcher rises while Andrew is still trying to catch his breath, waits for him to regain some sense before leaning in and ruffling his hair in a way that is almost fond. Andrew doesn’t think much into it, though. Fletcher’s weird, and he does a lot of weird shit. Not worth psychoanalyzing it.

         “Rub that look out of your eyes like you just saw man walk on the fucking moon for the first time. You look like a retard,” Fletcher hits him on the shoulder and Andrew’s cock stirs again.

         They walk back in and Andrew sits and listens to his uncle and dipshit cousins prattle on about god knows that. But this time Andrew has Fletchers mouth imprinted on his skin, and Fletcher’s sitting across from him and rolling his eyes when no one’s looking, and Andrew is holding back laughter.

         Maybe family dinners aren’t so bad with an ally there, even if it’s a monstrous one. Monsters aren’t always all bad, even if they hit you and call you “limp dicked faggot” and throw shit at your head when you mess up.

            And maybe it’s sick, but maybe Andrew kind of likes all those things, anyway. And maybe he doesn’t really care.


End file.
